


The Certainty Of Chance

by bigstupidjellyfish



Series: Crimes Against Creation [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Dealing with amnesia, M/M, Mentions of Prowl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 09:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2576534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigstupidjellyfish/pseuds/bigstupidjellyfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine a situation when you're hangover, just woke up totally disoriented, and your best friend is preparing you breakfast. You are not sure if that's just because they're your best friend or because you fucked last night. Now - the same thing, but on a bigger scale, with bigger robots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Certainty Of Chance

**Author's Note:**

> I'm progressing on a series of fics dedicated to these two, so please bear with me, I headcanoned their entire relationship and will eventually share.
> 
> Many thanks to Verit who was brave enough to beta it through my weird English.

If anyone asked Skids how he felt about his amnesia, he would probably answer it wasn't as bad as it seemed to be. Mind you, he was asked about it - by Rung, on Ultra Magnus's orders, by new friends on Lost Light, and that was his answer. Not having any clue about himself bothered him, of course, he could admit his whole situation was ridiculous, but at least Skids figured out that being stressed over things he couldn't control was out of his character. Using what he could easily reach right now and right here was his preferred style, apparently. That, and being sure that the opportunity will inevitably come, like it was when he found himself on some forgotten world, without any clue about himself, unable to transform and attacked by a couple of very angry Legislators. The theoretician spent no time theorizing what would have happened if he hadn't run into the Lost Light crew that helped him to get the inhibitor claw out.

 

And speaking of inevitability of opportunities... If anyone asked him about his opinion on the memory loss now, when there actually was a person who could at least tell Skids about what he's lost, Skids would answer that he was far more confused now. Except that nobody asked, of course. He was an expert at being an amnesiac by now, and no one was interested in his expert opinion on himself. Well. Their loss.

 

Why was he even confused about it now? Skids thought that not having a clue was comforting in a way: he knew he could do nothing about it and that was exactly what he did. When he learned about Chromedome's profession, it of course caused him to act immediately, but that was it.

 

Now? He had too many clues.

 

Getaway easily slipped into his life without any respect for Skids' supposedly severe mental disorder. He threw everything at him: familiarity, inside jokes, "hey-Skids-remember-that-time-when-we"s, which reminded Skids that no, he didn't remember that time. And that one time, too. It bothered him.

 

But it didn't bother him as much as his own reactions to Getaway's antics. It was like some sort of mechanical memory - he cracked a joke when he knew Getaway expected it, leaned it to whisper about another weird thing on Lost Light just to get that incredulous look on his partner's face, he even failed to notice when he grew fond of Getaway's habit of hitting - bomping, as his friend said, - Skids whenever he got excited (Getaway got excited a lot). Skids felt more whole around his partner, but every time he tried to pinpoint the exact source of this feeling, some solid proof, he got nothing.

 

Building new memories was nice, but it interfered with his reactions that seemed to come from deep-coded reflexes that blank charge couldn't destroy. Old familiarity mixed with newly grown connection to Getaway to a point where Skids could no longer distinguish between them. So when he started catching himself staring at the marksman's bright frame for a bit longer than he could consider appropriate, he couldn’t tell where _that_  came from.

 

And Getaway never gave answers to that question. He was friendly. He lacked a sense of personal space. He lapsed back into patronizing his forgetful partner every so often. He was a missing piece of a puzzle that was Skids' life now, but he somehow refused to fall in place to make a picture. The escapologist easily provided him with all information he asked (and didn't) about their work together, always adding with a smirk that it's all "top secret hot stuff." but all Skids' awkward attempts to discuss more personal aspects of their partnership got him only jokes and no real answers. Apparently this kind of information was actually classified.

 

Maybe it was him who couldn't make his interest on that subject clearer? Skids was aware that his superlearning talents didn't include social skills in the package, and about half of conversations with Getaway were pure guessing and hoping they would get each other. Then again, he couldn't explain why he was hesitant to talk directly about it. Of all things he had no idea about himself that was the worst one. It was a long time since he last backed off from a challenge and didn't take a risk. He felt like instead of learning about the new environment, he seemed to be _unlearning_ , and by now "confused" didn't even qualify to describe the tangled knot of wires that were Skids' thoughts.

 

He had no idea what to do. Maybe he needed a drink.

 

* * *

 

Skids stared at his glass of engex. His reflection stared back at him. It had been going on for a half an hour already.

 

"So, Skids, you come to my bar, sulking, tell me that you're not sulking, I say, "Uh-huh, right", offer you my best booze, and you’re still sulking."

 

Skids lifted his gaze to meet Swerve's judgmental look.

 

"Oh, no, don't give me that look, it makes me wanna ask Whirl to hold a gun to my head and tell him not to shoot. Friend, what happened? You know you can tell me."

 

Skids looked at his drink again. He sighed, lifted the glass and sipped a little.

 

"There you go. More sulking. If you continue doing that, the engex in the whole bar will curdle, Skids. I'll have to kick you out."

 

Skids frowned. It was obvious that the bartender was dying from curiosity and there was no way he would leave him until he found out the reason behind Skids' foul mood. The theoretician also thought that maybe he needed to talk to someone. Swerve couldn’t be much of a help, but maybe saying some stuff out loud would be nice.

 

Skids finished his drink and, feeling weird, gathered his scattered thoughts. Swerve started polishing an empty glass with poorly hidden anticipation.

 

"Do you ever look at someone and think that you totally could be together, but when you start thinking about it you have no idea how to tell them that?"

 

Skids cringed at his choice of words. Apparently saying stuff out loud could use some practice.

 

Swerve snorted and said:

 

"Nope, not really. Never took you for a shy type, Skids," he grinned.

 

"Um, I don't think I'm a shy type. It's just- it's complicated."

 

"Uh-huh."

 

Swerve finished polishing the glass and placed it on a holder, looking satisfied for no obvious reason.

 

"Uh-huh?" Skids repeated, suddenly alarmed by Swerve's calm pose. He expected to be drowned under the torrent of words by now, mocking or advising or probably both.

 

"When you say something is complicated it usually means it's connected to your amnesia," the bartender's grin, impossibly, grew bigger.

 

Skids made a complicated face. Was he that obvious?

 

"Oh. I see. You are hot-"

 

"No, it's not like that-"

 

"For that jet- wait, is he a jet? What's his altmode?"

 

"I, err, I have no idea, actually? And I said, it's not like-"

 

"For a guy with unknown altmode and a pretty paintjob-"

 

"Swerve-"

 

"Don't interrupt me, it's rude to interrupt people, you know? And you have no idea if you fragged before and now you're too chicken to ask him directly?"

 

"What's a "chicken"?" Skids asked the least important thing right now, confused by Swerve's mind-numbing chatter. "I mean, no!"

 

"You mean, yes," Swerve didn't look convinced.

 

Skids hung his head in defeat. Freakng bullseye.

 

"Well, friend, you're in luck! Here, this one's on the house," the bartender shoved a tiny glass of engex somewhere into the space under Skids' massive chestplate. "And here's the person in question!"

 

Skids, failing to find the offered drink, turned his head towards the entrance and saw Getaway's bright frame. Right. They were supposed to meet at Swerve's in off-duty hours. That was their usual routine, and if Skids wanted to discuss his private issues about Getaway without him, his choice of place probably wasn't that wise.

 

The bartender's face lit with a wide grin, and Skids suddenly knew what Swerve was going to do.

 

"Don't-" he started.

 

"Hey, lost-and-found-best-friend!" What Swerve lacked in size he compensated with the output of his vox coder: the whole bar turned their heads to him. Getaway, to Skids' horror, too. "Our deadly forgetful theoretician forgot something about you both!"

 

"If that's about why we agreed to work for Prowl - we don't talk about that," Getaway said cheerfully, moving closer to Swerve and Skids. He didn't seem to be bothered by the sudden attention at the slightest. Skids wished he could play it cool himself and find a way out of this situation, but his vox coder froze, not providing any more protests.

 

"Hey, that's actually a good question! Why-" Swerve was momentarily distracted by new mystery, but Skids' hopeful expression put his mind back on track. "No, that's not the question we all want to hear the answer to, though it's still insane that you worked for that prick- Anyway! Were you and Skids fragging before he went amnesiac?"

 

Silence that followed this question was almost electric with anticipation. Mentioning Prowl got the attention of those who weren't bothered by Swerve's tactful poking at other people's dramas - either too drunk or just plain used to his eternal hunt for gossips - but Prowl became that kind of taboo topic on Lost Light when crewmembers used his name to dissipate awkward silences due to no lack of people who were ready to discuss this one particular mech and how he managed to ruin so much on this ship while being on Cybertron all the time.

 

That said, everybody heard Swerve's question and were more or less excited to hear Getaway's answer. Skids looked up at the ceiling, finding the familiar entrance to the ducts, and wondered if he could crawl up there without anyone noticing.

 

To his horror, Getaway laughed.

 

"Sorry to disappoint you, Swerve, our relationship with Skids was healthy, consensual and professional. The answer is no," he said, optics glinting with amusement.

 

"What do you mean, no?" Skids heard his voice. It _had_ to be a vox coder malfunction because there was no way he could actually ask it out loud.

 

Getaway tilted his head to the side.

 

"Sorry? I didn't get that."

 

Skids finally found his free and much needed drink.

 

"No! Nope, nothing, just a random thought," he said and drank the engex in one go, glaring at the snickering bartender. Thankfully Swerve kept his mouth shut this time, and Skids was grateful to the universe for making such miracles possible.

 

Getaway finally made his way to Skids' table and sat next to him. He checked that everybody, disappointed by his answer, turned back to their drinks, and asked:

 

"So, what's the deal with these weird questions, partner?" He hit Skids in his upper arm. _Bomped_ , the theoretician corrected himself, _and it's an affectionate gesture_.

 

Skids eyed Getaway suspiciously and, seeing carefully played innocence on his friend's face, realized there's no way he could answer honestly. Yes, he knew it was only natural to ask all kinds of questions about his past to the only mech that could provide the answers, but this probably wasn't the best way to talk about their potential romantic relationship. Not when Getaway smirked like that and especially not with Swerve diving under the bar for a mixer, pretending he lost interest in the conversation.

 

Suddenly, Skids knew what to say.

 

"Don't mind Swerve, he tends to misinterpret things horribly." Skids said, ignoring the skeptical "Uh-huh" coming from under the bar. "We were actually discussing altmodes".

 

"Altmodes." Getaway cocked his head again. "Can't see how these two are connected."

 

"These are not connected! I mean, nobody here ever seen you in your altmode, and I don't remember, you know that."

 

Swerve, proving Skids' suspicions that he was still invested in this drama, butted into the conversation:

 

"Yeah, we kind of made bets actually, Skids - you won't believe that - Skids thinks you're a jet! Are you sure your friend wasn't hit in the head before? I'm worried about him."

 

Skids glared at Swerve again, who continued mixing drink for Getaway, not intimidated at all.

 

"Not on my watch, though I don't know, there was plenty of time when he could hit his head while I was-" Getaway's cheerful expression suddenly fell, but he recovered faster than anyone could address this. "How much did he bet?" He lowered his voice to a whisper, optics gleaming with mischief again.

 

Swerve covered his mouth with his hand and, before Skids could react to this new turn of events, whispered making sure that everybody heard:

 

"Fifty. Shanix."

 

Skids' mouth fell open. Getaway looked at him with disappointment.

 

"Skids-"

 

"I might have hit my head." he said defensively. He was so going to kill Swerve for that later. For that and for everything else. The theoretician also realized that he honestly had no idea what Getaway _could_  transform into - he never gave it much thought before. He thought that he saw wheels on Getaway's shoulder joints, hidden under bright magenta plates. Not a jet, then? Guessing now seemed a bit late.

 

"Uh-huh," Getaway crossed his arms and looked at him with a funny expression. Those were definitely wheels on his shoulders. How did Swerve even come to the idea about the marksman being a flyer?

 

"Don't keep us in suspense, transform already!" someone shouted from other table. Skids looked around and realized that they managed to draw attention again - this time, by mentioning bets. He saw other mechs discussing this enthusiastically and placing money already. He thought that he shouldn't be surprised.

 

After another impatient holler, Getaway snorted a short burst of static and took a step back, still looking at Skids with an amused grin. When the escapologist started transforming without breaking the eye contact, Skids felt like this was some private show for him and him only, except that it wasn't, really, with all the people present, and it was just a transformation sequence, right? He saw other mechs doing in casually on daily basis, there was no way that could be a reason for sudden temperature increase in his systems.

 

Except that even if that wasn't the reason, the sight of Getaway's vehicle mode was something spectacular and worth all the attention. He was a car, like Skids, but unlike himself he was all smooth, aerodynamic lines decorated by sharp angles of his spoilers. And his colors - what a lovely color scheme indeed - brought up the words "eye candy" to Skids' mind and made him want to trace every plate with his fingers.

 

Getaway showed off for a bit, riding in circles in the bar, smoke coming from under his wheels, and, hearing the appreciative cheers from the crowd, he revved his engine, made a sharp turn and started riding on both right wheels. At this point people started hollering, Skids heard faintly someone transforming, too, and Swerve's yelling interrupted the fun:

 

"HEY! No racing in the bar! You will break something, and I WILL ban you from Swerve's 'til the end of this quest, no exceptions!"

 

He had a point. Despite there being a strict rule against the weapons (sword, gun or briefcase-shaped), more common troublemakers were mechs who simply got drunk, transformed and wrecked the furniture. Swerve refused to hang a "Don't drink and drive" sign because, as he said, "it's obvious when you're sober and you don't care when you're drunk".

 

Getaway's left wheels touched the floor, but he still made a full circle around the bar before returning to Skids. He transformed back, looking a bit sheepish as he heard some mechs applaud him. The escapologist bowed to them mockingly, flattered by the attention, and finally got to his drink that was waiting for him for a while.

 

Skids realized that he was looking at him with an open mouth. He also realized that his cooling systems increased their output by almost a third of their regular work.

 

"Fifty shanix."

 

"What?" Skids asked dumbly, finally turning his optics away from Getaway to Swerve.

 

"You owe me fifty shanix, Skids."

 

"But you didn't-" Skids shut up. Swerve's threatening glass polishing promised that he was ready to spill Skids' darkest secrets or make money on them. "Why are we friends again?" He asked, fishing for the money in his chest compartment.

 

"We're not just friends, we're best friends," Swerve grabbed the shanix and beamed.

 

"Wrong!" Getaway threw his arm around Skids' shoulders. " _We_  are best friends. "We" as in "Skids and I". I'm not greedy, though, you still can be his buddy," Getaway continued his happy chirping, and Swerve looked at Skids almost sympathetically.

 

Skids thought that he was in so much trouble.

 

 

* * *

 

It took Skids a week of hard thinking about the bar incident before he realized that he needed advice. Preferably from someone who wasn't an overly chatty metallurgist without sense of tact.

 

Thankfully, Rung fit perfectly: he wasn't "chatty" or "metallurgist." and he probably could make a fortune if he started selling his tactfulness. Skids wasn't so sure about Rung's own experience in romance, but he assumed that people have been coming to him with all kinds of problems in their lives for millions of years. Maybe there was some case of an amnesiac outlier and his hot spy partner, and he wouldn't make a precedent.

 

Did he just called Getaway hot in his thoughts?

 

 _I may as well stop denying this already_ , Skids thought as he eyed Rung's office. The model of Arkship 5 was still missing, its spot empty on the shelf.

 

Rung waited patiently for Skids to start talking. The theoretician stated from the beginning that he wanted to hear an advice from him as a friend, not a psychotherapist. The momentary look of surprise on Rung's face puzzled Skids, but the older mech just smiled and said he would love to help.

 

Skids sighed. He fidgeted on the couch - he never liked talking to his friend while lying - then sat up to face Rung, placing elbows on his knees.

 

"Okay." he said. "It's Getaway. I want to talk about him. And me."

 

Rung nodded. It was a start.

 

"There's that thing that's been bugging me since - I don't know, now it seems since _forever_." Skids seemed to find his trail of thought. "We worked closely together. I know it because Getaway told me and because, I guess, it's easy to be around him. He knows me well enough, hell, he knows me better than I know myself. I believe we were partners. I believe we were good friends". He made a pause, looking around the room again and noticing with annoyance that the missing ship model was still missing, much like the pieces of his memory. "I wonder if we were more than that".

 

"Have you asked him about the status of your previous relationship?"

 

There it was. The most dreaded question. Skids was perfectly aware that asking Getaway was the only solution to his problem. But he had no idea how to ask such things without the fear of ruining this new, but already valued friendship.

 

"Well, simple answer is no. I don't think I'm capable of asking my friends whether we were fragging and I forgot about it. It's rude."

 

Rung nodded again, and a little smile appeared on his face. "I assume you didn't ask Swerve of all people to do it for you, then".

 

"Scrap. He told you?"

 

"Skids, I was there that night."

 

"Oh. Sorry, I didn't see you in the crowd," Skids brought his hand to the back of his helm, slightly embarrassed. Was he so invested in his problems that he failed to notice his friend in the bar? He also felt a little relieved: he wasn't sure he could re-tell the events of that day without more embarrassment.

 

"Now it doesn't surprise me," round optics glinted with a smile. "You were looking at Getaway like he was the only person on the entire ship."

 

The theoretician looked Rung straight into the optics. He realized that his friend was on point there.

 

"I fell hard for him," he said with a small smile and nodded.

 

Saying this felt as if a tremendous weight was lifted from his shoulders. Even Rung's nod at this statement seemed like approval.

 

Rung was silent for some time, and then asked:

 

"Is it important to you that this," he made a vague gesture, "would be the continuation of previously established relationship?"

 

Skids didn't understand the question at first.

 

"As opposed to?" He made a guess.

 

"As opposed to a completely new stage of relationship for you both."

 

Skids looked at the psychotherapist as if he said that he was a Decepticon double agent. Before he could open his mouth to tell him how ridiculous this thought was, Rung continued:

 

"You both were tasked with highly dangerous and secret missions. Getting involved with your partner might have resulted in big trouble - either from your command, or when things like Tyrest happened."

 

Skids frowned. Rung had a valid point, and he felt ashamed for not thinking about it before. In his pursuit for answers for which he refused to ask proper questions he somehow missed the fact that Getaway was captured and spent all these months being interrogated, tortured and listening to Tyrest's ramblings about justice and sins. He guessed that at least for him, this experience would be extra painful if he'd lost a lover in such an operation.

 

Apparently, some of the concern made its way into Skids' expression, because Rung hurried to say:

 

"I technically ought not to tell this, but your friend is coping with this experience better that I would have imagined. Apparently the High Command teaches its secret agents some useful techniques in that regard."

 

Skids was grateful for that commentary, but he still felt like he owed Getaway an apology. His partner spoke of Luna 1 rarely, always in a joking manner, and it still was inconsiderate to outright ignore the months of imprisonment.

 

"Any chance you would tell me if he spoke of," Skids pushed his luck, "us?"

 

It was Rung's turn to frown.

 

"Not in that sense," he carefully said. "My best guess about your previous relationship would be that it was, as Getaway said himself, "healthy, consensual and professional", but that doesn't necessarily exclude mutual attraction that might have taken place."

 

Skids bit his lip plating in thought.

 

"And my best advice would still be trying to talk to Getaway directly," Rung continued. "I'm afraid keeping it to yourself or asking others will get you nowhere and will make things awkward between you two."

 

"Okay," Skids said. Despite the fact that Rung had no new advice to him, Skids was glad this conversation happened. He actually made sense of his feelings this time, and Rung offered some new insight. He thought with a bit of irony that maybe he couldn't rely on his superlearning skills in social situations because they required other people to make it work. "Thanks, Eyebrows," Rung frowned at the nickname, expressive optic ridges wholly justifying it, "I needed that. Um, and- If anything of his issues manifests, tell me? I never gave it much thought, but now I'm worried. Getaway's been through a lot."

 

Rung shook his head:

 

"That would violate doctor-patient confidentiality, Skids. But if you're up to it, I might organize sessions for couples later," he offered a gentle smile. Skids returned it, grinning.

 

"Thanks," he said again. "I'll go talk to him right now".

 

 

* * *

 

He decided to meet Getaway in one of the empty observation rooms he found during his exploration of the ship through the vents. Lost Light was a huge vessel, and finding a private place wasn't that hard. Finding a private place that hasn't been discovered by other people who wanted to find a private place was a bit harder, but Skids managed, with the whole layout of Lost Light being mapped down in his head by now.

 

Besides, the view was nice, Skids thought as he sat right on the floor and looked at the stars, trying his best not to feel nervous.

 

"Come on, Skids. You're not the shy type, remember," he said to himself.

 

The theoretician actually managed to calm down and felt somewhat confident when he finally heard someone entering the observation room. He turned back and smiled, seeing Getaway's sleek frame. He could do this.

 

"What's that? A personal space observation room? It needs a little decorating," Getaway said as he came closer and sat next to Skids.

 

"It's not personal. Just not very well known by the others," Skids answered. He turned to the marksman now, not caring about the stars anymore.

 

"Almost the same thing," Getaway waved his hand. "So what did you want to talk about?"

 

"Us," Skids answered before he could get any second thoughts. His partner raised an optic ridge in silent question, and Skids continued, "It's about that... bar incident."

 

Getaway tapped his fingers on his knee in thought.

 

"I suppose it's not about the fact that you couldn't guess my altmode?" He asked just to be sure. Skids shook his head. "You know, just because you couldn't ask it yourself doesn't mean you should have asked Swerve to do it for you," there was that amused glint in Getaway's blue optics again.

 

"Yeah, he's the worst wingman you can imagine. And he makes money on your misery," the theoretician hung his head and huffed a laugh.

 

"And, yeah, before we jump to conclusions, partner: I answered honestly," Getaway said carefully, placing both hands before him.

 

"Hmm. I thought so."

 

Getaway's answer didn't upset him as much as he thought it would just a couple of weeks before. He was silent for some time, deep in thought, before he continued:

 

"I mean, it probably made sense. We were working together on dangerous missions, right?" He saw Getaway nodding with an intrigued look in his optics. "That kind of thing happens only in those alien spy movies Rewind was showing us on movie nights," he paused again, suddenly unsure of what he should say next. What if he missed it completely? It could be that he made a move on Getaway, got rejected and now he's just going through the same thing again, which couldn't possibly be pleasant for his partner, amnesia or not.

 

"I'm sensing that somewhere there should be a "but". Come on, don't keep me in suspense," Getaway suddenly said, snapping Skids out of his thoughts. He looked at the marksman and saw genuine curiosity in his face, in his pose - he was turned half-way to Skids now - and maybe a little bit of anticipation. Getaway was smart, Skids reminded himself. He could've figured it out already, and the lack of irritation in his gestures was encouraging enough to finally take a risk.

 

"But," Skids obliged. He raised his finger as if to make a point, "now I look at you, and as I get to _know you_ , I wonder what the hell I was thinking and how I managed not to fall for you at the first opportunity."

 

Getaway blinked and made a face difficult to describe. If he had a mouth, he probably would have it hanging open right now. He moved closer, raised a finger, mirroring Skids, and said with an audible ex-vent:

 

"Continue."

 

"Um," the theoretician was taken aback by this reaction. "I mean. We're obviously pretty close. Even though I still have no idea what you're talking about sometimes. There is a..." he cleared his vox coder from static. He also started counting his fingers without noticing. "There is a certain attraction. And we're not working for - wait, are we still working for Boss?"

 

"I'm not eager to contact him," Getaway answered. "And technically, our last mission is complete."

 

"Ah. Good," Skids said.

 

There was a pause again. Skids briefly wondered about their possible responsibilities, but escapologist's finger appeared in his area of vision again:

 

"Don't get distracted, partner. Continue."

 

Skids couldn't hold back a smile at that.

 

"Right. We're not working undercover anymore, and there's no constant threat of being discovered and dying," he paused for a moment. "Actually, screw that, we're on Lost Light. Might as well frag before something horrible happens again."

 

Intense flickering of Getaway's optics and shaking of his frame in silent laughter indicated that Skids said something he probably shouldn't have. He slapped himself in the mouth:

 

"Wait, I didn't mean-"

 

"No, no, this is brilliant," the marksman interrupted him. "You make some good points! Why have I never thought of that before?" He was visibly excited now, and, of course, he _bomped_  Skids.

 

"You never?.." Skids couldn't help asking.

 

"Yeah, what the hell, right?" Getaway said. "I mean, we _really_  never had time or chance to stop and think about it, but now that you've pointed that out - bless you and your smartassness, seriously - it's just ridiculous. All those years, can you imagine?"

 

Skids was speechless. He admitted he hoped for some positive reaction to his confession, but Getaway was absolutely radiant with excitement. It wasn't the first time when the theoretician admired his partner's ability to easily get so enthusiastic, and now Skids felt warm endearment hugging his spark.

 

"Are you serious?" he asked finally, still not quite believing.

 

The marksman closed the distance between, maskplate to nose, bright blue optics staring into yellow, somehow amused and serious at the same time.

 

"Of course, partner," he said to Skids, and warm ex-vents coming from the sides of his face tickled theoretician's cheeks. "And you picked the best place for the first date."

 

Skids was sure he had the biggest grin ever when he leaned even closer, both hands on the sides of Getaway's helm, and kissed his maskplate. He wasn't sure kissing would work - not that he thought about it beforehand - and it seemed that Getaway had a similar thought as he let out a small laugh, but the escapologist placed his hands around Skids' neck and nuzzled his mouth, apparently enjoying the sensation. Skids left a trail small kisses on Getaway's faceplate, from the sides to the jawline and back, deciding that kissing _everywhere_  would be the only right way to kiss a faceless bot, and was rewarded with tingling pleasure coming from his neck cables where Getaway's gentle fingers played on them lightly.

 

When they parted, Getaway's ex-vents were several degrees hotter than before, and Skids himself felt the urge to up the speed of his cooling fans. Still pressing his forehelm against his partner’s, he licked his lips and said:

 

"So I suppose that first date went well."

 

"Excellent, I'd say," Getaway answered, optics locked on theoretician's lips. "I'd start planning the second one immediately."

 

Skids' spark flared in his frame violently, like it could light up the whole room.

 

"So where would you want that second date to take place?" he suggested with a grin.

 

Getaway hummed, looking thoughtful.

 

"I think I've seen less than half of the ship so far, so I don't really know. Bar sounds good?" There was a bit of uncertainty in his voice.

 

Skids remembered what happened the last time he visited Swerve's, and realized he wasn't eager to get the attention of the gossipy bartender again. He could admit that the chatty minibot helped him in a sense, but Swerve's remarks about him and Getaway showing up together were the last thing he needed, and the theoretician was sure there would be remarks, speculations, conclusions, intentional awkward insinuations and maybe bets again - everything Swerve thrived on.

 

Getaway laughed, and Skids, snapping of his thought cycle, realized that they still were very close as warm puffs of Getaway's ex-vents brushed on his face.

 

"Skids, the look on your face," the marksman laughed again. "Okay, not good, my bad. Racing in corridors?" he tried, obviously out of ideas.

 

That was an interesting suggestion, but brief consideration led to the conclusion that potential fun was outweighed by the possibility of being caught and reprimanded by Ultra Magnus.

 

Skids' processor made a strange leap of thought.

 

"Have I ever told you that I spent an unholy amount of time crawling through the vents here? Found lots of stuff - the bar, this room, many other things," he said.

 

His partner narrowed his optics.

 

"You have a very unique idea of what a tour on this ship should be like."

 

"We're on a spaceship, Getaway. In space. There isn't much to do."

 

"Do we get to eavesdrop?"

 

"More than you would like," the theoretician barked a laugh at this mischievous tone. The marksman placed his hands on the back of Skids' helm, leaning into the kiss again, and Skids readily brought his lips to his partner's maskplate. "And I get to spend time with you in confined spaces," he whispered against it, grinning. It seemed like his face plates would hurt from all that smiling, but he didn't care.

 

"You would like that, wouldn't you?"

 

Skids felt a short moment of dissociation - he wasn't used to kissing mechs who could continue talking without even changing the tone during this activity and he even regretted this as he realized that he couldn't use this move to shut Getaway up (not that he planned to). He brought his hands to Getaway's frame, brushing fingers on the crimson windshield and, hearing a hitch in the marksman's vents, thought that he could work with that.

 

"Very much so."

 

"I'm game," this time, Getaway's voice was a little bit shaky with barely audible distortion.

 

Oh, they could work with that, Skids thought and kissed him more.

 

 

* * *

 

"What's he up to?"

 

_"He has audiosensors like no one on this ship, use the radio, ciphered frequency."_

 

_"Whatever you say, partner."_

 

_"And don't squirm."_

 

_"Roger that, partner."_

 

Skids suppressed the urge to sigh loudly. He had no idea how Getaway managed to sound mockingly using their personal comm link, but he did.

 

His partner had his optics glued to a narrow slit in the wall of the ducts. Skids was lying behind him, still able to catch the sight of massive blue frame in the hab suit they were eavesdropping on - or spying, as Getaway insisted. He almost couldn't believe that Getaway had sniper training with all the fidgeting he did until it dawned him that the escapologist didn't lay still on purpose, and that purpose was to tease his partner. It would be nice, flattering even, if there wasn't a possibility of being caught. And reprimanded. By Ultra Magnus, no less.

 

Why did he think that mentioning Ultra Magnus' private habits he accidentally discovered was a good idea?

 

The unsuspecting former Enforcer was fiddling with controls of some in-built system of his hab suite.

 

_"You know, if that "unexpected habit" of him is actually some weird scrap, I will use my blank charge, without hesitation."_

 

_"Unless he has more of unexpected habits, then no. And you don't have your gun anymore, remember?"_

 

_"Is it me who has amnesia?"_

 

Skids couldn't resist. If Getaway found so much joy at being insufferable, then why couldn't he? He, as quietly as possible, brought his hand to Getaway's folded fender and, holding it firmly, licked it from the base on the marksman's back to the tip. About the halfway through he felt a tremor running through the fender and his comm link received a short burst of static.

 

 _"Not fair,"_ Getaway finally managed to send, calming down the shaking of his frame.

 

 _"Absolutely not fair,"_ Skids agreed, still fondling the smooth plating lightly. He hoped he managed to include the smug grin in the message.

 

His thoughts were interrupted by the beeping coming from the hab suite. He paid attention to Ultra Magnus once more.

 

"Ultra Magnus here," the ship's second in command answered, visibly displeased by the interruption of his activities. "I am sure you can deal with racing in the corridors by yourself without disturbing my off-duty hours. What? Rodimus is also there?" The spies heard a heavy sigh. "I'll be there in ten minutes."

 

He closed the comm link and started muttering something, but caught himself immediately. Skids watched Ultra Magnus go out of his room with disappointment.

 

It appeared that his partner was disappointed, too, because he moved his shoulder, that fender almost hitting Skids in his face, and sent:

 

_"He just got up and left. Can you believe this?"_

 

"I can believe this, yes. We can visit Brainstorm's workshop if you're interested, but you never know what kind of smoke there would be from all the fire and explosions," he suggested via his vox coder, not seeing a point of keeping quiet anymore.

 

"I'll pass," Getaway answered. Impossibly, now he was lying perfectly still. "What was that habit of Magnus anyway? You can't promise me some hot stuff and then leave it."

 

"Hmm," the theoretician used this chance to lie more comfortably and placed his hands around his partner's frame, and breathed an ex-vent in the back of his neck. "He listens to Earth classical music."

 

"That's it?!" Getaway sounded disbelieving.

 

"That's the most fun thing he can do, I suppose. Besides, he makes a funny face when he listens to it."

 

"Friend, you need better entertainment," Getaway said with carefully faked irritation. He fidgeted again and then turned to Skids. "I can help with that."

 

"Really," the theoretician observed the bright, smirky optics shining in the dark. "Convince me."

 

"How about," he felt Getaway's nimble fingers tracing the biolights of his chest hood down to abdominal plating, "making out in the ducts right above the ship's second in command's hab suite?" He nuzzled Skids' mouth at that, his mind apparently made up already.

 

_"Sounds fun."_

 

 


End file.
